Trail of Evil: The Chemist Series, #2

By Janson Mancheski

The serial kidnapper known as "the Chemist" is incarcerated and awaiting trial. Yet, to Lt. Cale Van Waring, the case is far from over.

 

Two female victims remain missing, and a tip points to international human traffickers as Cale's only lead. The trafficking ring, however, is based in Central Europe.

Stressing matters further, Cale learns that his fiancée, Maggie Jeffers, is pregnant—likely by the man who kidnapped and raped her—the Chemist. Surprise twists occur as the abductor (Tobias Crenshaw) plots his release from legal custody.

 

Having promised the victim's families that he'd continue searching for their missing daughters, Cale embarks on a weeklong odyssey to Europe. Set up by his FBI contacts, he is assisted by three hardcore mercenaries. Cale's search takes him down dark alleys in Rome, Brussels, and the steamy jungles of Liberia. Assassins, sadists, perverts, and even a voodoo witch doctor—all connected with a human trafficking ring—will stop at nothing to thwart Cale's search for his missing victims.

 

"I love mysteries, intrigue and forensic science. This book has it all. It's not a short book, but I still couldn't put it down. I live near Green Bay, one location in the book which makes it extra fun, but this has no bearing on the exciting story. You will be hooked!" - Jeanne M.

 

"I am not a writer and I usually don't comment on these reviews but I have to say it is so refreshing to read a thriller with a new twist. This book is very creative and the detail that Janson writes makes you feel like you are in the story, I couldn't put it down." - Sezqt12

 

"I read this book in 2009 for our book club and again last week because our book club will be discussing books 2 and 3 of the trilogy next month. I thought it was just as great the second time as the first. It is a must read for anyone who likes suspense and a really great mystery." - Charly

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Chemist Publishing House
• Release date: Apr 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781950316175

Book preview

Trail Of Evil

Janson Mancheski

To Al Mancheski, whose personal motto: Fight the good fight, provides me with a winning credo.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

Although Trail of Evil is written as a stand-alone novel, it also functions as the second book in The Chemist trilogy. Reading the stories in their chronological order, though advised, is not necessary. All three works follow the path of Green Bay homicide investigator Lieutenant Cale Van Waring as he doggedly pursues an international human trafficking ring.

Also by Janson Mancheski:

The Chemist

Trail of Evil

Mask of Bone

Shoot For The Stars

The Scrub

The Greatest Hits—Best of The Chemist Series

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This is the 3rd Printed Edition (March 2022)

TRAIL OF EVIL

The Chemist Series – Book 2

Original Copyright  ©  2012 Janson Mancheski

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, movie script or screenplay or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author/publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the publisher's opinions, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Specific stock imagery is maintained. Cover design is the purchasing right of the author and can thus be reproduced only by the author or publisher or in advertising with the author’s legal permission.

Any people or persons depicted by Stock Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Any names used are purely coincidental and are considered fictitious for storytelling purposes.

TRAIL OF EVIL

Printed in the United States of America

Fearless Publishing House rev. Dates: 12/23/2019

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

PART ONE: HEAD SHOTS; HEAD GAMES

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

PART TWO: SEASON OF THE WITCH

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Want more of the Chemist Series?

Sneak Peek of Book 3: Mask of Bone

CHAPTER 1

PROLOGUE

Inside a mountain cavern on a rainy African night, the drumbeat slows. The crowd of worshippers shuffles in place, swaying, a devoted maelstrom gathered in the vast central chamber.

Near the granite altar, a witch doctor—a botono—raises a fiery torch. Garbed in a dark robe, he touches the brand to the fire pit, and sparks roar up in a sizzling display. The drums increase their intensity. The participants—first twenty, then forty—dance to the sound of the shakers, whirling in place, shimmying, enraptured by the guttural pulse of the drums.

Another burst of flame erupts from the pit. Across the room, a mambo eases her way to a fern-woven basket. She opens the lid and withdraws a fat, green serpent. The snake coils itself around her arms, its shimmery tongue flicking in the firelight. Near the center pole, the mambo begins to sway as if entranced. The celebrants form a circle around her, stepping in and out, clapping to the drumbeat.

The witch doctor raises his left hand in the air at the altar. He is summoning a petro loa, a dark god he hopes will grace the ceremony with its presence. The beating of the drums continues to echo off the craggy rocks.

The village chieftain steps forward, leading a goat by a tether. A pair of shirtless men assists, and they maneuver the animal, so its neck drapes over a wooden basin. The goat offers a frightened bleat, black eyes wide with fear. The botono steps toward the creature. After the flash of a long, gleaming knife, warm blood gushes. The animal’s legs twitch as a fountain of crimson splashes into the basin. 

When drained, the men hoist the carcass above their shoulders and are swallowed by the frenzied crowd. The drumbeat lowers to a dull throb.

A silent parade of young girls emerges from an antechamber off the main room, each garbed in a white tunic. Twelve in number, they march forward, lining themselves near the shadowy black wall of the cavern. They stand barefoot, still and expressionless, and each has a sponsor who stands behind her.

At the altar, the botono turns to the crowd. He holds a carved wooden bowl filled with bits of seasoned bread. The chief and villagers watch, eyes rapt.

The snake adorns the mambo at the basin as she fills a chalice with the goat’s steaming blood. She joins the witch doctor, and together they face the virgins. The botono dips a piece of bread into the mambo’s chalice. He feeds it to the first girl, who opens her mouth to receive. He makes no holy utterance, for wherever Christ might be, He is nowhere near this mountain cavern on such a bleary, rain-sodden night.

The witch doctor progresses down the honor line, administering his offering. Before he reaches the fifth young virgin, the first one sways and collapses into the arms of her sponsor. She is carried off to a shadowed chamber, out of sight. By the time the unholy pair reaches the end of the line, the first half-dozen girls have collapsed.

When the final virgin is eased from the cavern, the tanbu drums resume their more intense pounding, with the shakers rattling, all accompanied by the frenetic, jerky, wanton dancing of the near-naked celebrants. A possessed teenage girl suddenly lurches about, zombie-like. An invisible spirit has taken hold and is riding her.

Guzzling from a rum bottle, the contents seeping down her smeary cheeks, the mambo loudly cackles. A frenzied pack of worshippers rushes to the dead goat—tearing the animal’s limbs apart, waving steamy entrails in the air.

By this time, the witch doctor has vanished. The drums and twirling revelry of the voodoo celebration will continue long into the night until dawn arrives to scrub the mountainside with pure purple light.

PART ONE

HEAD SHOTS; HEAD GAMES

CHAPTER 1

Nothing but toys. Life-sized baubles. Each is no more than a robot encased in warm human flesh. To Colonel Tazeki Taz Mabutu, every young African maiden was but a trinket who existed for his private amusement or a commodity to be sold or traded on the open market.

These were his thoughts as he emerged from an invisible back exit in the mountain, stepping through a dark crevice between the rocks. Thirty yards away, a large military truck sat with its cargo loaded: twelve fresh young females, ready to be transported to the port city of Monrovia. The Liberian freighter Kwensana already floated in the harbor, awaiting her final deliveries before departure. Her destination was The United Kingdom.

Colonel Mabutu strode to the driver-side door of the vehicle. He was now wearing military garb. The truck’s engine was running, and to the driver, he said, You have the papers, Shoppa? In case the U.N. dogs are out tonight?

The man in combat fatigues nodded. Yes, Colonel. All is in order.

My signature at the bottom? 

As you ordered, Botono.

The soldiers in the truck’s front seat carried TEC-9 assault pistols—spitting jackhammers of death—in their laps, eyes gleaming white in the rain-cast night. Around them, the whispering tree branches and broad jungle ferns dripped, swaying in the humid breeze. The mountain peaks stretched to the heavens in the background, providing a looming backdrop against the sky’s velvet curtain.

Text my mobile when the ship is loaded, ordered Tazeki. The men saluted, and the colonel watched the truck as it rumbled away down the mountainside.

Puffy, soot-colored clouds swept across the night sky, serving to blot out Lshne and her handmaiden stars. Tazeki thanked the loa for the letup in the rains. It would allow for a smoother helicopter ride back to his compound, where a long night awaited him.

To a nearby aide, he ordered, Start the helicopter. And put the girl on board.

The man saluted and hurried away down the narrow path in the darkness.

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The young girl awoke in the opulent bed, tangled in satin sheets. The colonel’s bedroom, she remembered. Having come from a small inland village, these were by far the most elegant surroundings she had ever experienced—all like a dream compared to the tarpaper shack where she lived with her parents and nine siblings. She considered rising, visiting the commode, but was fearful of disturbing such an important man as the colonel. She’d seen him cross last evening, ordering his men about, and was afraid of his wrath. Those eyes—warm and coffee-colored when he smiled—were bloody daggers when angry. She did not wish to test those blades.

You're awake. Good, said the colonel’s voice, hollow in the high-walled bedroom. I've got a lot of work to do.

The fern ceiling fan spun lazily above the room, providing comfort against the humid, mist gray morning. The young girl arose, swinging her bare legs free of the sheets.

No. Remain where you are. His voice was stern, used to giving commands. I'm the one who needs to get moving. And he rose while she scootched back beneath the covers, pulling the sheets to her chin.

She watched as he padded across the floor of polished teakwood, short of stature but sinewy strong. He moved to the wet bar, where he donned his loose robe and poured himself a glass of fresh mango juice. Sitting on the bar stool—his silk robe of colorful African shapes and forms parted halfway up one dusky thigh—he emptied a vial of white powder onto a glass serving tray. He lowered his head and took an extended snort, rubbing his nostrils while ignoring her presence.

I’d offer you some, he called to the girl, but you are still a child.

I’m fifteen. Old enough.

The colonel smiled. Perhaps. But where you're going, you won’t be needing it.

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Twenty minutes later, Tazeki Mabutu had showered and was sitting behind the work desk in his private study. The walls were covered with African artifacts: crossed spears, thatched battle shields, colorful masks depicting gods and demons. A shrunken female head sat on the mantle above the fireplace amid the pottery and knickknacks. Strands of what had once been wheat-colored hair hovered over her blank, remorseless expression.

His young guest, now garbed in the same white shapeless dress she’d worn on her arrival, sat in an armless wooden chair a few feet in front of the desk. He noted her uneasy countenance. She looked like someone who had been summoned for interrogation.

Tazeki was holding his pewter statue of Pazuzu, shifting the object in his hands as if weighing it, like it might contain some clue to the fate of the adolescent sitting before him.

Is everything—she spoke, hesitant—was it all right, sir? Me, I mean?

Your performance last night, Tazeki said, his eyes sincere, the zombie dance. It was enchanting.

I don’t remember much.

No. Of course, you don’t.

He set the statue atop his desk, next to his computer screen. He pondered a moment while steepling his fingertips in front of his chest. You are quite beautiful, Tazeki spoke with calmness, staring into her warm brown eyes. A work of art. Exceptional.

Thank you, sir. She looked down at her lap.

Allow me to speak freely. His lips gave no hint of a smile, and his eyes bore into hers with intent. Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?

The girl could not have appeared more stunned. She was incapable of a reply. His words jolted her. Tazeki pictured the thoughts tumbling around in her youthful brain: the colonel’s wife? Living in this palace of splendor with the servants, the chauffeured cars, attending opulent balls, and state-sponsored political events. Arm-in-arm with Tazeki Mabutu, head of the Liberian National Police. It would be too much for her mind to grasp, too sudden a shift in fortune for a girl straight from a shanty village steeped in poverty and squalor.

You speak for real, sir? She hesitated. You not make a joke? To tease me?

Tazeki heard her voice catch. Her eyes were cautious, wary against his playing cruelty at her expense.

This is short notice, he said with sincerity. I will allow you all the time you need to ponder such an important decision. By the way, what was your name again?

Safron, she said, her voice soft.

Safron. Very well.

Before the young woman could utter any other sound, the colonel reached beneath the surface of his desk. He flipped a metal switch and watched as, a moment later, she dropped through the polished wooden floor—chair and rug and all—too surprised and shocked to even scream. He pictured her body crashing against dark stone walls, thrown into tarry blackness as the trapdoor above her snapped closed. In seconds, she would hit the deep pool of brackish water. He imagined her scrambling for her bearings, inhaling before she went under, far beneath the house. She would struggle to find the surface, clawing about, trying to cling to whatever final breaths she might manage.

Before her fingers could grasp the slippery rocks, however, the eels in the pool would swarm. She would scream—a sound Tazeki could not hear, of course—and within minutes, the flesh would be torn from her meager bones in raw, bloody strips. She would bleed profusely, and by the time she realized the true extent of her horror, she would be devoured.

––––––––

The room was quiet as a pond after a fish had jumped. Tazeki rang the bell for his servant. When Kasim appeared, wearing his customary red Nehru jacket, Tazeki ordered the young man to procure a new woven rug from the supply they kept on hand. To place it in front of his large mahogany desk, where it covered the seams of the trapdoor. The servant performed this task without comment before disappearing from the room, silent as an insect.

Tazeki stared into the deep, hooded eyes of Pazuzu, and a devilish smile formed across his lips. Precious, wasn't it, my friend? he murmured aloud. Did you see the look on her face? 

Pazuzu conversed only with his thought speech, and his sly expression remained enigmatic.

No—not when she dropped through the floor. Tazeki crowed effusively. "I meant when I asked her to marry me!"

CHAPTER 2

Whenever Detective Lt. Cale Van Waring was in the same room with the man who had kidnapped and almost murdered his fiancée, he wished he'd handled the man's arrest in a more primal fashion. Instead of wounding him in the thigh, if he had aimed his Glock four inches higher, he could have blown the pervert’s balls clean off.

This correction—in Cale's opinion—would have rendered a more befitting form of justice. But then he’d be working parking meter duty somewhere if he still even had a job on the force.

It was Monday morning now. As the lead investigator in the case, he'd been requested by the DA’s office to appear at the Brown County jail. As Cale parked his Bronco and strode toward the glass front doors, however, he thought he could detect the first faint whisper of foreboding as it surfed on the playful May breeze.

Cale took a seat beside John Zachary, the assistant district attorney, in a private interview room. The parties were seated around a long, ash-hued table, where Zachary had arranged for jail officials to set up audio and video recording apparatus. He wanted a clear record of the accused’s physical demeanor, along with every verbal utterance Tobias Crenshaw might make.

A pair of the suspect's attorneys sat to one side of their client. Guards had rolled the shackled man into the room in his wheelchair. Crenshaw—a.k.a. The Chemist—had occupied the chariot since recovering from the ordeal of his arrest. His leg wound was bandaged, Cale imagined. His shoulder, where he had received a stab wound, courtesy of Maggie Jeffers, Cale's fiancée, would be likewise wrapped. His left arm was encased in a sling, worn over his jailhouse jumpsuit. A fitting fashion accessory, as far as Cale was concerned. Crenshaw deserved every ounce of pain he'd been dealt.

The attorneys present were hired guns from a notable Milwaukee law firm called Murray, Murray, and Wine. They appeared smooth and efficient, possessing quiet confidence, which rendered Cale a feeling of unease each time he'd had the displeasure of being in their presence.

After everyone was seated and the suspect indicated that he was ready, Zachary clicked on the recorder and video camera. He spoke steadily and stated they were conducting the third interview with Mr. Tobias Powell Crenshaw. He mentioned all those present in the room.

Turning his attention to the accused, Zachary said, You wish to make a statement today regarding the charges you're facing, Mr. Crenshaw?

The charges. Cale was aware the DA’s office had decided to add a first-degree murder charge to the initial six counts of felony abduction. Even though they didn’t have absolute proof, the hope was they might pressure their suspect—who had a healthy fear of prolonged incarceration—into a confession. Or at least force him to provide them with more evidence, such as revealing what he’d done with the bodies of a pair of still-missing victims.

It was all a game of legal cat-and-mouse.

Despite the wheelchair, Tobias Crenshaw appeared to Cale not much different than he'd been on the night he’d arrested him. The criminal’s shaggy hair could use a trim, and the tortoiseshell eyeglasses served to narrow his face further, but otherwise, the guy remained the same pervert who had almost destroyed his and Maggie’s lives. The ankle and wrist shackles, the prison jumpsuit, none of these hid the fact the man was a dangerous sociopath. On the outside, he appeared calm and confident, displaying the everyday demeanor of a successful businessman. Looking into his eyes, however, Cale could discern the predatory nature of the monster lurking beneath the surface. Crenshaw's twilight gray eyes possessed a chilling quality. He stared out at the world with a narcissistic, self-centered contempt, looking as if he'd rather employ a filet knife to your inner organs than converse with you.

In his wooden chair, two feet from where Zachary was positioned, despite the bolus of hatred rising in his throat, Cale couldn't help but shudder at the sinister portrait Tobias Crenshaw projected. His aura of death was shrouded in its most treacherous form: benign normalcy.

I'm here because of the plea deal you discussed with my attorneys, said the prisoner, his voice a prickly monotone.

Zachary's eyes registered no surprise.

Cale felt his breath catch. A plea deal? What plea deal? The revelation came as a shock to him. He wondered what sort of compromise the DA’s office had concocted behind the scenes. Was he the only one present who did not know the true nature of what was going on here? And to this point, was he even sure he wanted to know?

You mean concerning the reduction of the charge of murder in the first degree? said Zachary. Is that the plea bargain you're referring to? Crenshaw stared straight ahead, nodding imperceptibly.

I need a verbal response, Mr. Crenshaw.

Yes. Crenshaw turned toward the camera. It's about dropping the murder charge.

"Not dropping. Reducing, said Zachary. For the record."

All right, then. Reducing.

Cale watched as Zachary shared a meaningful look with the defense attorneys. The ADA spoke into the angled microphone positioned at midtable: Let it be noted that the accused, Tobias Powell Crenshaw, the serial abductor known as ‘The Chemist,’ has indicated his intent to explore the possibility of reducing his current charge of first-degree murder—

Alleged, interjected one of Crenshaw's attorneys, a bald man with a wreath of dark hair. "The alleged abductor. When Zachary shot him a look, the man added, We’re not pleading guilty to anything here. This is a discovery discussion, intent on exploring a reduction in presently filed charges."

Point taken, counselor, Zachary allowed. To the camera, he judiciously replied, "The alleged abductor known as the Chemist...discussion on reducing the new first-degree murder charge down to aggravated manslaughter." Zachary jotted a note on his legal pad.

And for the record, Cale said, interjecting his opinion to the quiet room, "this is alleged bullcrap! When he had their attention, he added, The guy chopped the head off one of his victims. With a machete. How does that add up to anything short of premeditated murder?"

Zachary turned his eyes back to the camera. Let it be further noted that Lieutenant Cale Van Waring of the Green Bay Police Department has registered his protest regarding any reduction in charges against Mr. Crenshaw. Detective Van Waring, it should further be disclosed, possesses no degree in jurisprudence.

Maybe not, Cale said, scowling. "But I possess a degree in common freaking sense!"

Cale wondered if he was the one person here who gave two craps about the victims. Close to snapping his pen between his fingers, he shot a steely gaze in Crenshaw's direction. The man returned it with a smirk, while Zachary indicated it was time to explain the more relevant reason the group was gathered in the room today.

To our second point. The ADA cleared his throat. Mr. Crenshaw, in exchange for the possible charge reduction, you have indicated through your attorneys that you have information pertinent to the death of Ms. Kimberly Vanderkellen?

That's right.

Would you mind stating the nature of your claim?

Crenshaw eyed the camera like a stage performer. It concerns the actual real identity of the man who murdered the Vanderkellen girl. He glanced around the room at them all. His name is Kinsella—and he’s from Liberia. Africa.

What? Cale’s voice echoed off the room’s painted walls. He turned to Zachary, saying, This is just more game-playing BS!

Zachary scrutinized the prisoner evenly. And you received this information how, Mr. Crenshaw?

"I didn't receive it—I know it!"

Zachary was holding his breath. This person you are naming...you know this for a fact? That he murdered Kimberly Vanderkellen?

You wanted the name of the man who killed the dead girl. His name is Kinsella. Chopped her head off, execution-style.

Cale began to protest again, but